The Coaching System
Chapter 289: Second Half

Chapter 289: Second Half

Manchester United vs Bradford City

Jake entered the dressing room first, took three strides to the tactic board, and drew three arrows. Just three. No color. No explanation.

The room filled in silence. Boots scraped against tile. Silva dropped onto the bench, towel over his head, breathing through his mouth like a man who had been underwater for too long.

Vélez didn’t sit—he stood in the corner, staring at the arrows on the board as if they held a code only he could decipher.

Nobody waited for Jake to speak; they knew it would come when the room settled.

Chapman rolled his shoulders back and adjusted the tape around his ankle. Richter drained a bottle of isotonic in two long gulps, then crushed the plastic between his palms.

Finally, Jake turned from the board.

"We go out and break their tempo." His voice was steady, unwavering. "One goal. Then we go again. If they beat us, they beat us after running for it."

No grand speeches. No tactical overhaul. Just clarity.

Chapman looked up, jaw set, and nodded once.

Jake checked his watch.

"Two minutes," he said, then turned and left the room, giving them the space to finish preparing—mentally and physically—for what lay ahead.

The second half began without ceremony.

Bradford didn’t retreat into shape—they pressed forward. Chapman stepped five yards higher up the pitch, eyes already searching for the first gap. Ethan shadowed him, their movements synchronized like dancers who had rehearsed for months.

Fifty-one minutes in, Silva received the ball thirty yards out. No hesitation—he took one touch to settle, then another to shape his body before firing a shot that pinged off Martínez’s shin and spun behind for a corner.

Bradford stayed high. Not reckless, just determined.

Jake remained on his feet, unmoving except for his eyes, which darted from one passage of play to the next. He didn’t shout instructions—the time for that had passed in the dressing room.

Roney cut inside on the left flank, feinted once, and earned a free kick when Dalot clipped his trailing leg. Twenty-five yards out. Perfect Vélez territory.

Old Trafford held its breath. Vélez stood over the ball, measured three steps back, and curled it toward the top corner. It rose, dipped—and skimmed just over the crossbar. Close enough that Onana froze, watching its flight without moving.

Jake pressed two fingertips against his lips, as if storing the moment away.

Manchester United weren’t panicking. They were waiting.

The moment came in the fifty-ninth minute. One miscalculation—Bradford pushed too high, and Bruno found the space they’d left.

The pass split Chapman and Ethan like a surgeon’s blade—precise, devastating, released before either could react.

Garnacho was already gone, down the left, the grass opening before him like a runway. Kang turned too late, his feet stuck in cement. Barnes couldn’t cover the entire width alone.

Garnacho didn’t look up—he didn’t need to. The pass rolled across the six-yard box, perfectly weighted, and Sancho arrived at the back post. No elaborate finish, no power—just a side-foot stroke past Cox’s despairing dive.

4-1.

Jake didn’t move immediately. He watched Garnacho’s celebration, noting how casual it was—as if it had been inevitable. Then he signaled to the bench.

"Obi. Walsh. Rasmussen."

Three numbered boards went up. Triple change. The message was clear: they weren’t backing down.

Richter jogged off first, slapping Obi’s hand as they passed. The young forward’s eyes were already focused on the pitch, his shoulders hunched forward like a runner at the blocks.

Chapman followed, his face lined with disappointment and fatigue. Walsh replaced him with a quick pat on the back.

Finally, Roney made way for Rasmussen, who sprinted onto the pitch before the Swede had even crossed the touchline.

As Silva passed the technical area, Jake reached out and caught his sleeve.

"Drop into midfield when Ethan goes," he said, his voice low but intense. "I want three runners."

Silva nodded once, not questioning, just absorbing the instruction.

The changes energized Bradford. They didn’t retreat—they pushed forward.

Old Trafford stirred uneasily.

In the sixty-sixth minute, Vélez received the ball in his own half, turned sharply past Casemiro, and drove forward. The space opened up, and he took it, eating up yards with each stride.

He looked left, then right, then left again—and slipped the ball to Silva, who had drifted wide as instructed.

Silva didn’t hesitate. One touch to control, one to set, then a cutback that scythed between two red shirts.

Obi had read it before anyone else. He had already started his run from the edge of the box, accelerating past Lindelöf, who couldn’t turn quickly enough to track him.

The ball arrived at the near post, and Obi struck it first time—low and hard, slipping under Onana’s outstretched glove.

4-2.

The away end erupted. Scarves and bodies tangled in disbelief and raw joy.

"He’s been waiting for that," Seb Hutchinson announced from the gantry. "Chido Obi, instant impact!"

Jake clapped twice—sharp and crisp. Not celebrating, not yet. This wasn’t about one goal; it was about the next one.

Old Trafford’s atmosphere shifted. What had been confident anticipation now carried an edge of concern.

But Manchester United had quality that couldn’t be contained forever.

In the seventy-second minute, Bruno found Mount in space at the edge of the area. The midfielder took one touch to set himself, then fired low and hard toward the bottom corner.

Cox flung himself down, fingertips stretching, and somehow deflected it around the post.

"That’s not a keeper playing for pride," Michael Johnson observed. "That’s one saving face."

Jake allowed himself a small nod of acknowledgment. Cox hadn’t just made a save; he had kept them in the contest.

But the tide couldn’t be held back indefinitely.

Six minutes later, Rasmussen took a heavy touch on the halfway line. The ball bounced away from him, and Mount pounced, snatching possession and driving forward.

Bradford’s defense was caught in transition, scrambling to reset. Mount exchanged a quick one-two with Garnacho, breaking into the area on the return pass.

One touch to steady, another to look up—then he bent the ball around Cox and into the far corner.

5-2.

Jake didn’t rage or shout. He simply shook his head and leaned closer to Paul Robert.

"They punished everything," he said quietly.

The game’s shape had been decided. Bradford didn’t give up—they couldn’t. But the energy began to fade from their legs, and the crispness left their passes.

In the eighty-seventh minute, United won a free kick thirty yards out. Bruno stood over it, eyes narrowed in concentration.

His delivery was cleared, but only as far as the edge of the area, where the ball dropped back to him.

Bruno didn’t need an invitation. One touch to control, then he swept it low across the grass. The ball skipped once, twice, then nestled into the bottom corner.

6-2.

Jake turned his back before the ball even hit the net. His mind was already elsewhere—on the recovery, on Strasbourg, on the words he would need in the press room.

When the final whistle blew, he walked straight to Erik ten Hag, shook his hand firmly, and exchanged a brief word. No excuses, no complaints.

The players gathered near the away supporters. Cox stayed out longest, applauding those who had traveled to witness what had become a harsh lesson.

Obi walked off with Silva beside him, neither speaking. No words were needed; the scoreboard said enough.

Post-Match Press Conference

Location: Old Trafford Press Room

Jake sat at the table, his water bottle untouched beside him. His expression revealed nothing—not anger, not disappointment—just a blank canvas waiting for the first question.

The BBC reporter didn’t hesitate.

"Jake, was this a step too far for your team?"

Jake leaned slightly forward.

"Maybe," he said, his voice steady. "But I’d rather stretch ourselves than stand still."

A journalist from The Athletic raised his hand next.

"Did you expect to concede six goals?"

"I expected them to hit us when we opened up," Jake replied. "But we weren’t going to Old Trafford to sit in fear."

The Yorkshire Telegraph followed up.

"Any regrets about rotation?"

Jake’s response came without hesitation.

"No. The only regret would have been hiding."

He stood, nodded once to the room, and left. There was no need for further explanation.

Fans on X – #BantamsFallButFight

@SystemEyes

Scoreline’s a lie. That was football without fear.

@ClaretKings

They walked into a cathedral and sang anyway.

@ObiNation

Chido doesn’t need starts. He needs minutes. Big ones.

@BantamsFaithful

Silva. Vélez. Ethan. Walsh. This midfield will cook next season.

Media Headlines

The Guardian:

"Old Trafford Too Steep a Climb – But Bradford Refuse to Crawl"

Sky Sports:

"Bruno Masterclass Drowns Brave Bantams"

Yorkshire Telegraph:

"Jake’s Men Go Down Swinging – All Eyes Now on Strasbourg"

The team bus pulled away from Old Trafford in silence. No music played through the speakers, and no tactical review began immediately. Only the hum of the engine and the occasional click of phones being checked filled the air.

Jake sat alone in the front row, a notebook open on his lap. He wasn’t writing; he was just staring at the blank page, his mind already shifting toward the next challenge.

Chapman leaned his head against the window, watching Manchester fade behind them. The engagement ring box remained at home, untouched, a reminder of a life that felt distant after today’s defeat.

Silva had his earbuds in and his eyes closed, but he wasn’t listening to any music. The silence was what he needed right now.

Obi stared at the ceiling, replaying his goal in his mind—not in celebration, but in analysis. What could he have done differently to change the game’s outcome?

Walsh and Rasmussen sat together, occasionally exchanging quiet words about missed opportunities.

Finally, Jake wrote something in his notebook. It wasn’t about tactics or formations. Just four words:

Strasbourg won’t be ready.

He closed the book and looked ahead as the motorway stretched before them. The journey continued.